


The Hero With The Hidden Face

by BeaconHill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark But Not Edgy Harry, Dark Harry, Gryffindor Harry, Legilimency, Nice Dursleys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 18:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20119738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaconHill/pseuds/BeaconHill
Summary: It seemed to Harry Potter like he had been afraid his whole life. First of Dudley and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia – and then of a man named Lord Voldemort, the evil man on the other side of a war that his parents had lost. James and Lily sent him letters and books from beyond the grave, to prepare him for the war that he had been born into. So it had been a shock when he received his Hogwarts letter and heard that the war was over. It had been the best news of his entire life. Too bad it didn't last...





	1. The Stolen Book

The door slammed behind me, hard enough to knock dirt down from the stairs overhead, and I could hear the bolts drawn across to lock it. I was trapped in my cramped, dirty little cupboard again. I smiled as I lay down onto my lumpy mattress, sighing with relief. _Finally_.  
  
Being locked in my cupboard was supposed to be a punishment. It really was pretty uncomfortable – not a lot of room in here, and they usually didn't feed me either. But when I was locked up, the Dursleys liked to pretend I didn't exist. Dudley didn't bully me, Uncle Vernon didn't shout at me, Aunt Petunia didn't bother me. It was a quiet, cool, dark place, where I could lie on my blanket and think. I'd learned to hide food away, and I'd gotten used to the spiders years ago.  
  
I'd started acting out, just enough that they'd send me in here. I was being careful – I didn't want them to think I liked it, so I begged and begged, and it seemed to make Uncle Vernon do it more often.  
  
I reached up and pulled the old shoelace that turned on my one bare lightbulb. Then I took the stolen book from the little pouch in my backpack no one else knew about, and started to read.  
  
It still felt bad to steal books. I used to borrow them from the school library all the time. But Dudley didn't like it, and one day, he took one of my books and ruined it, tore the cover off and threw the pages in the mud. Aunt Petunia wouldn't pay the fine – she blamed me, said I was a delinquent, a vandal, a nasty young boy. So now I was banned from borrowing books. I stole them instead. I had been for three months now. I was good at it – at not being seen, at hiding then, at only reading when I was locked in the cupboard or hidden away outside. But I didn't like being the delinquent that my aunt and uncle always said I was.  
  
I thought I had a good reason. I was being abused, I'd read enough by now to know that. That didn't mean I could do whatever I wanted – I'd read more than enough books with villains who thought so to ever believe it myself. But what happened wasn't my fault. I ought to still be able to borrow books, if Dudley hadn't destroyed mine and Aunt Petunia hadn't lied and then refused to pay the fine. I always made sure to return the books on time, just as if I'd borrowed them – I read quickly, so that wasn't hard, but still, I did it. And my books were the only thing I had to look forward to.  
  
So I felt guilty about it, but I did it anyway.  
  
Books let me escape, let me get away from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia and Dudley and into wonderful, magical worlds, where the good guys always won and your parents always loved you and the bullies always got shown up in the end. Best of all was, when I was reading a book, I wasn't Harry Potter any more. And that was what everyone wanted, wasn't it?  
  
Today I was reading _The Hobbit_, a nice big fantasy book, with dwarves and dragons and wizards and _magic_. I sure didn't get any of that out here in the real world – the Dursleys hated even the _word_ magic. They wouldn't even let me watch _The Wizard of Oz_. They thought it made them look normal, that they would have nothing to do with magic, but I hadn't the heart to tell them that most people didn't cry out in fear of children's stories.  
  
That, more than anything else, made me wonder if there really was magic in the world after all – there had to be _some_reason the Dursleys cared so much. But, honestly, I doubted it. _If only I really were so lucky._  
  
Besides, it'd be hard to top _The Hobbit_ for a good magical world. I just couldn't get enough of it – I was definitely going to steal _Lord of the Rings_ next. I sank back into the book, into Bilbo's riddle game, his escape from Gollum, his new invisibility ring, and finally his return to his companions.  
  
_"What did I tell you?" said Gandalf laughing. "Mr. Baggins has more about him than you guess."_  
  
I had always liked Gandalf – actually, I almost imagined I'd met him somewhere. I had a very fixed image of him in my mind, with long hair and a long beard and neat little half-circle glasses. The only thing that didn't quite fit was the outfit – in the story, he wore grey, but I couldn't help but imagine him wearing bright, mismatched, sparkling, utterly flamboyant robes.  
  
Then I heard a noise.  
  
High and piercing, like a tea kettle. Quiet at first, but it got louder and louder, accompanied by a searingly bright light, right here under my stairs, bright blue and flickering like a fire. My eyes darted to the door – would the Dursleys notice? Or had they done this themselves somehow? They couldn't, could they?  
  
I reached out and grabbed for the light, and it went out. I'd taken hold of a letter, thick and oddly folded. It took me a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dark again, blinking and squinting, before I could read it.  
  
First, my eyes caught on the photograph paperclipped to the front. It was of a woman with green eyes like mine and a face like a softer, rounder version of Aunt Petunia's... along with a man who looked just like me, and a very young child in their arms.  
  
And then the photo _moved_, the people inside smiling and waving to me, and I gasped.  
  
What was this? Were these my parents? This couldn't be a prank – moving photos weren't a _thing_, were they?  
  
Carefully, I unclipped the photo and started reading the letter beneath.  
  
_Dearest son,_  
  
_Your name is Harry Potter. You are a wizard, and you are a half-blood. If any of this surprises you, keep reading. This is not a fake or a forgery, and it was not sent to you by accident._  
  
I sucked in a breath. Now I was starting to wonder if I was dreaming – if I'd fallen asleep, _The Hobbit_ in my hands, and now I was dreaming of magic. It had happened before, but it never felt so real.  
  
_I am your father, James Potter. If you've received this letter, then I, your mother Lily, and your godfather Sirius Black are all dead, or may as well be. When we lived, we were soldiers in a war of wizards, and if you're reading this, then our side lost. This letter is to explain ourselves: who we were, why we died, and why you don't know about it. But I don't know exactly what happened to you – please open the tabs for the reactions you have._  
  
There was a war? That was pretty grim, certainly much grimmer than _The Hobbit_, but I had read some books like that. They had always been easy to get into for me – they felt familiar. If this letter was for real, then now I knew why.  
  
There were five little tabs there on the page – _I'm not a half-blood!_, _Wizards aren't real!_, _That's not my name!_, _My parents were bad guys!_, and _I already know all of this!_ – with a little doodle of a grabbing hand pointing at them.  
  
I definitely didn't know all of this, so I wasn't going to open that tab. Harry Potter was my name, so I didn't want to open that tab either. I didn't think I was a half-blood on account of not knowing what that meant, and the Dursleys did always say my parents weren't good people. But there was only one thing here I _really_ wanted to know. I grabbed the little tab marked _Wizards aren't real_, and yanked it open, revealing a whole long section.  
  
_Yes, we are real_, the letter said. _How else do you explain this letter just showing up? And you're one of us too. I'm sure you've noticed it by now, even though you're only nine, even if you don't know what it is. Strange things happen around you. You can do things you can't explain._  
  
I... I _did_. My hair growing back when Aunt Petunia cut it, finding myself somewhere too high to reach when Dudley chased after me, particularly awful clothes shrinking so much I couldn't fit into them any longer. I'd even started to use it on purpose a little – it helped me hide and sneak when I stole books. Was that really magic?   
  
_If you haven't heard of wizards, that means you've been raised by Muggles – people who don't have any magic. That's not what we planned for, but it's not totally surprising, if things went wrong. In the Muggle world, you won't know about the war. You won't know who Lord Voldemort is, the blood purist terrorist leader we fought, who very likely won. He's almost always called You-Know-Who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or the Dark Lord, or something else like that, to inflate his ego._  
  
_He hates Muggles, like the ones you live with, wizards whose parents are Muggles, like your mother, and of course wizards who defied him, which include both of us – and unfortunately, because you are our child, very likely you. You should be safe with the Muggles for a little more than a year still – the Wizarding world doesn't seek out children living with Muggles until age 11. After that, though, you may be in trouble._  
  
I grimaced. The magical world sounded worse and worse the more I read. I was actually starting to wonder if Dudley and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia might not be the better option.  
  
_Here's what you can do about it._  
  
Below that was an arrow directing me to fold the tab back up. I did, and more of the letter had appeared.  
  
_Whichever path your life took, now you know: you might be in terrible danger. Hopefully, because you are a half-blood, they won't try to kill you immediately. But there's always a chance they will, and that means you need to be able to defend yourself._  
  
_The problem is, there aren't many options to let an 11-year-old hold his own against fully-grown, fully-trained adult wizards. In fact, there's really only one – the Dark Arts. Powerful, very powerful, and I'm told it feels incredible to use, a euphoria like little else in magic. But it's also illegal, corrupting, dangerous, incredibly damaging to your health, and addictive. It is the signature magic of Lord Voldemort. Of our enemies. Your life will, if you decide to study it, forever be a struggle for control against your magic. If there were any other choice, any other option I could suggest that might work, I would do so. But there isn't. I'm sorry the Dark Arts to be your inheritance._  
  
I felt a scared little flutter in my chest as the genre of my life's story changed once more. I was to be the orphan secretly trained in the dangerous forbidden techniques I would need to survive. I'd read books like that, too. And those protagonists could be cool. They could do awesome things. But, somehow, they always seemed to end up like Dudley in the end. Even when they were still supposed to be the good guys, even when I was still supposed to be rooting for them, they got mean. Hurting people, being nasty and mean, talking down to people, being awful to wise old wizards who only wanted to help.  
  
I didn't want to be that kind of protagonist.  
  
_Your mother is scared, and so am I. If I had started learning the Dark Arts at age 9, I would have been a terror before I was 11. But Lily was always serious, even on her very first day of Hogwarts. She was never prone to cruelty or foolishness. She could have withstood learning the Dark Arts at your age. I hope you take after her more than me. And... if you're scared, like we are, about what you might become if you do this... know that it's a good sign. Promise me that if you go through with this, you'll listen to us, to your books, that you'll try to stay kind and understanding, to stay in control._  
  
Reading those words, I started to cry, the letter blurring with tears. "I... I'll try," I whispered. "I promise! I n-never want to be like Dudley. I don't w-w-want to be like..." My voice trailed off, as I thought of still more heroes – the ones who had touched evil powers, and lost to them. "I'll try my best," I said, my voice a quiet, scared whisper, "to keep control."  
  
It took me a little while before I could wipe my eyes and keep reading.  
  
_The first book I want you to read is called What Makes A Dark Wizard: The Nurmengard Survey of 186 Captured Wizards In Grindelwald's Army. It will explain, far better than I ever could, the risks you might take, the danger you might face. And then I want you to make your own decision. Know that, whether you choose to stop your research or to continue, we support you._  
  
_The Survey is a very simple book. It just presents the facts: the lives of one hundred and eighty-six sad, depraved men who served a Dark Lord, expressed in statistics and charts but also in stories, the long and oftentimes sickening tales of how the most feared Dark Wizards of their time fell into Grindelwald's hands. I could have given you sermons, fiery condemnations of the Dark Arts. But I think, and many people agree with me, that this tiny little book is more sobering than any of them could ever be._  
  
_Whenever you're ready to start your studies, you can summon our family trunk. It's laced with old magic, made to follow the head of household whenever or wherever you may need it, made in a time when, at a moment's notice, a wizard may need to run. If only that time had ended. Simply place your hand over your heart, and speak the word retrove (reh-TROH-vuh) to summon it. The word verzende (vur-SEN-duh) will send it away once more, hiding it from anyone who might find it._  
  
_Good luck._  
  
The letter was signed _James Potter_, in flourishes and swoops that felt almost goofily overdone, and yet eerily familiar.  
  
I just stared at it for a few moments. Unable to process, unwilling to believe. But only for a moment, and then I put my hand over my heart and spoke the magic words. With a quiet _puff_ and a flash of light, an old wooden chest appeared, painted ornately with dragons and wizards and a Potter family crest on the lid. My mattress sagged a little under its weight.  
  
My first spell. I felt distantly like I ought to be proud, like I ought to be screaming and clapping, ecstatic. But instead I just felt a pit in my stomach. I hoped I could do it.  
  
Then I opened the lid, took out the first book, and started to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So usually when Harry Potter learns to use the Dark Arts, a few other things come along with it. The Dark Arts get a whitewash, becoming safe and sane in a way they really, really aren't in canon. And, of course, Harry himself becomes an edgy little shit who gets sorted into Slytherin and can't get along with Albus Dumbledore. This will, if I continue it, be a Dark Arts story where none of those things happen, where the Dark Arts are as awful as canon, where Harry wants to be the hero just as much as canon... but doesn't think he can, if he wants to survive.


	2. Letters and Lancets

_The Case for the Dark Arts_  
Letter from James Potter  
  
_The Dark Arts are horrifying, dangerous, and corrupting. Even most illegal spells aren't classed as Dark Arts – that label is only for the worst of the worst, for sacrifices, sigils, and addictive/euphoric magic. Spells that reward you for using them on innocents, that corrode and corrupt your morals. You've read more than enough about their horrors by now. So I'm sure you're wondering: why? Why would you use them, or I take such pains to show them to you?  
  
I have to admit, for the first twenty years of my life, I would have said that there was no reason. That the Dark Arts were incurably evil, and so was anyone who would even consider them. But while incurable evil is a common outcome of Dark Arts usage – but it's not universal.  
  
The Dark collection here is our old family library. Many of them are personal journals, written by your great-uncle Bertram or your great-great-aunt Arachne, your two closest ancestors who dabbled in Dark Arts. Most of the books are rare, and many unique. It might not match up to the library of a truly Dark family – the Blacks, the Lestranges, the Dolohovs – but it is a good place to start, especially if your interests lie more in the esoteric than the depraved. Certainly as a research collection it is superb. Which begs the question: why doesn't everyone know about us? Why aren't we considered a Dark family, home of psychopaths and addicts? Indeed, our family has always had a reputation as light, as good, as keeping away from the Dark Arts just the way so many other pureblood families don't. Obviously, that's not quite true.  
  
The answer is in why we use the Dark Arts. We've always been tinkerers, eccentrics, inventors, scholars. We have a taste for knowledge of all kinds, and sometimes that taste doesn't stop nicely at the boundaries of the law. I resented that for a long time – I thought that my ancestors were crazy, and that it was lucky none of them had ever gotten exposed. But that wasn't quite true. The real difference between us and the other Dark families is not the magic we use – it is the reason we have for using it, and the strength we demand of those who do, that has kept us safe. We understand the dangers, and respect them, and move forward only when we're certain we can. That's how we've always been able to keep our self control. To not go crazy. To remember what we're doing and why we're doing it, even as we dabble in magics that can ruin bloodlines.  
  
But intellectual curiosity isn't the only reason to learn the Dark Arts. Indeed, I feel your cause is far more righteous. You learn the Dark Arts as a tool for protection, for defense, and for justice. Even the most rabid of the Aurors accept that they are, in the end, just tools. And so, in the war, the most grievous of Dark curses – the Unforgivable Curses – were legalized for use only on Death Eaters.  
  
The magic I send you now to is often considered Darker. But there was a reason we even thought of legalizing the Unforgivables – they are brutally efficient, which means that sometimes, you _need_ them, at least if you mean to survive against enemies nastier, crueler, and sometimes more powerful, who do use them. Likewise, I believe _you_ will need this – at least if you mean to survive this war as a free, unbowed wizard.  
  
When I said that there was no other choice that could let you fight adult wizards in time, I meant it. And I do truly believe that you can get through this with your mind intact, your soul unscathed. It's not what I believe that matters, of course. But I thought I should explain why.  
  
Good luck.  
_  
~~  
  
I closed the book and leaned back in my chair. I tuned out the sounds of Dudley's video game from the next room as I thought about the Dark Arts, and about the heavy fountain pen that lay on my desk, holding my big notebook open. I reached forward and picked the pen up, twirled it in my fingers... then focused my magic and _changed_ it. Nib-Shaping Charms and Anti-Leaking Charms sprang into action, turning the points of the nib razor sharp, drawing the ink away from it.  
  
This wasn't just a pen, nor even just a magical pen – it was what Dark Artists called a lancet, an instrument to draw droplets of blood for very simple, safe kinds of sacrifice magic. My great-uncle Bertram had made it, using the fountain pen's charms both as concealment for the much subtler Dark Arts embedded into the metal and as integral parts of the lancet itself, all of that hidden in a package so common as to be beneath notice. Dad's letters said the Potters were inventors, and this was certainly an impressive invention.  
  
But I hadn't used it yet. I wasn't sure I ever would.  
  
The letters from my parents all said that the war must be lost, that Voldemort must have won. But I was starting to doubt it. Aunt Petunia was my real aunt – if there were Death Eaters looking for me, surely they'd check here. And I'd read about what it was like in Grindelwald's War and in Voldemort's. A nation under the rule of a Dark Lord has an almost tangible despair. Even the Muggles should be feeling it. But it wasn't like that. Not that I loved Little Whinging, but it wasn't even close to that bad.   
  
If there was no war on, then I didn't need the Dark Arts. I didn't need to hurt myself this way. I'd read all the books, or at least all the safe ones, but I hadn't tried any of it yet. I hadn't yet pricked my finger on the lancet, let alone made spells bloom from the blood. It was enticing, entrancing, and some days I wanted nothing more than to try it out. But I knew it would be crossing a line. My first true Dark Art. As if the Legilimency hadn't been bad enough.  
  
I winced as the thought passed through my mind. Right. The Legilimency. Illegal, very illegal without a license, but not strictly speaking a Dark Art, at least when I was in the mood for clinging to technicalities.  
  
It wasn't that I wasn't _good_ at it. I was. Not _incredibly_ good yet, but... well, one book I read mentioned a Legilimency prodigy, someone who learned the discipline astonishingly young. He had been thirteen. I was still ten. So I thought I was right to be proud that I could do any of it at all.  
  
So far, I could read emotions passively. Add a little power, and I could pick up some surface thoughts. I couldn't go deeper yet – I didn't have the finesse or the empathy yet to dig for secrets without using so much force even a Muggle would notice. But I did have one other skill that I'd learned to master: Legilimentic projection.  
  
I flinched, startled, in my chair as a big, meaty hand knocked at my door. I sent my books and my trunk away, just in time as Dudley stepped into my room.  
  
"Mum wants you," Dudley said. "It's time to make dinner." And didn't he look hungry. Dinnertime had been creeping steadily earlier in the Dursley house, and I knew exactly why.  
  
"Got it," I said, getting up from my desk. "Thanks, Dudley."  
  
He grinned as he went back to his bedroom and his video game, and I stood up, walked down the stairs.  
  
Did something seem different about this picture to you? Because you were absolutely right. And my projection was the reason why.  
  
Even Dark Artists and Legilimencers didn't use projection much. There were advantages to it – projection was subtle, harder to detect or reverse – but the Confundus Charm and the False Memory Charm were easier ways to tamper with a person's mind – at least, for adult wizards with wands and power that I just didn't have yet. But projection, like all Legilimency, used very little power and didn't need a wand. Which meant that it was perfect for me.  
  
Like my Legilimency, my projection was still weak. I could only force vague feelings, fuzzy impressions into another person's mind. But that was more than enough.  
  
I'd taken to watching people with my Legilimency, studying their emotions. And one thing I'd discovered early was that parents always reacted the same way to their children. Joy, happiness, humor and wonder. Sure, at times there was frustration or disappointment, but rarely ever anger, let alone disgust or hate. Except for the Dursleys and me.  
  
They _despised_ me. Their emotions were so loud and so toxic... it almost hurt to use Legilimency on them, at the beginning of all this.  
  
And so I'd changed them. I gave them different feelings. I made the Dursleys remorseful when they hurt me, happy when they were kind. Like normal parents were. Their grudges against me were old and deep-set, and I couldn't change them directly. But with bursts of emotion, I could steer the Dursleys the right way.  
  
Now, a few months in, I was certain: it had worked.  
  
"That is the slowest I have _ever_ seen a child walk," Aunt Petunia said as I finally stepped through the kitchen door.  
  
"I was thinking!" I complained. "Besides, why do you always make _me_ help with dinner, anyway?"  
  
Aunt Petunia raised an eyebrow, smiling warmly at me. "You _really_ want to find out what happens if I let Dudley or Vernon cook dinner?" She laughed, seeing my suddenly sour expression. "C'mon, Harry, you're good at this." She patted me on the back as I stepped up to the counter – she already had the stepstool out for me – and started to help with the ingredients.  
  
It wasn't just that they were friendlier now. I had a _bedroom_ – the smallest one, but it was mine. Dudley had stopped bullying me, Uncle Vernon had stopped yelling, Aunt Petunia had stopped sneering. I wasn't the family servant any longer – the others had chores, too. I could borrow books again, and Aunt Petunia even took me to the town library or the bookstore sometimes. I was _happy_. I was treated better than I had been... probably since my parents died. And yet...  
  
It was _right_ to stop the Dursleys from abusing me. Their emotions were so unlike other peoples' that they must have been ill, damaged in some way, and fixing that seemed to help them. It had even made their lives better. Uncle Vernon had got promoted at work because he wasn't so angry any longer, Aunt Petunia had many more friends, and Dudley was doing better in school. I hadn't really changed them that much, either. Dudley was still by far their favorite son.  
  
But I knew how easily I could have gone farther. Made them disgusted at Dudley the way they once had been at me. I could turn them against each other. Make them act out in public, get them arrested, get them sent to the psych ward. And that would be evil. Abuse, just as surely as what they'd done was. I'd read the books – the ones my parents had given me, on top of the Muggle ones I'd been reading for years. I _knew_ how dangerous this kind of evil could be, how corrosive. The problem was, how could I know when to stop? How could I know when I'd crossed the line?  
  
How could I know that I hadn't already?  
  
Could I be sure that my soul wasn't already stained by the magic I had done? That wasn't just a spooky thing for wise old wizards to say – it was _real_, I'd read the research. I really, truly could damage my soul, if I were cruel and nasty and bullying. If I ever let myself become what Dudley once had been.  
  
Supposedly, worrying about it was actually a good sign. But I wasn't going to count on that.  
  
And I definitely wasn't going to try any more Dark Arts until I was sure I needed to. No matter how much a part of me still wanted to.  
  
"Staring at that onion won't help anybody," Aunt Petunia said, a familiar smile on her face. "Get your head out of the clouds, Harry."  
  
"Sorry, Aunt Petunia!"  
  
~~  
  
When the letter from Hogwarts arrived, Dudley was surprised, but Vernon and Petunia weren't. They'd always known – they just weren't sure how to tell me. It used my real name, and the name of a man – Albus Dumbledore – my parents' letters had said was fighting against Voldemort.  
  
I was hopeful, but I had no owl to write back with and no way to buy school supplies, so I let Aunt Petunia send a letter to the Muggle address she just so happened to have for Hogwarts – she'd been terribly embarrassed about knowing one, and refused to explain why. Probably something to do with adopting me.  
  
When I got home from school that day, a witch was waiting for me in the sitting room, and I gasped, my eyes widening.  
  
I'd seen pictures, read about us in books, but this was my first time seeing a real witch in person. She was older, probably in her 60s, though I knew witches looked younger than Muggles did. She wore a tall, broad-brimmed pointed hat, and her robes were a reflective green, the cloth finer and softer than Muggle clothing. Her eyes were very piercing. My Legilimency got almost nothing from her, and I knew better than to even _try_ to use my power against her.  
  
"Hello," she said gently, not at all surprised by my shock. "I'm Professor McGonagall. I'm from Hogwarts – unfortunately the records didn't have you down as Muggle-raised, or I would have come in the morning. You're a wizard, Harry."  
  
"My aunt and uncle said," I agreed with a nod. "But I'm not completely sure what that means. Could you show—"  
  
I gasped as, without waiting for me to even finish speaking, she waved her wand to create sparkles of light, dancing across the room. And then she transformed _into a cat_, and meowed petulantly at me from the coffee table – she was an Animagus? That was really difficult – Dad had left notes about his own transformation and it sounded awful, and the Dark sigils with similar effects were even worse – but then Professor McGonagall turned back and smiled.  
  
"Convinced?"  
  
"That was _so_ cool," I breathed, and she smiled at me.  
  
"You've likely experienced your own magic, in smaller ways," she said. "Can you think of anything?"  
  
"Er—" Well, yes, I could think of lots of things. But the Legilimency was illegal, the Occlumency was age-inappropriate, the book stealing looked bad, and the talking to snakes looked Dark—  
  
"Been up to some mischief, have you? Don't worry, everyone does." Professor McGonagall smiled, and I smiled back, trying hard to keep my nervousness on the inside. I'd need to do better than that – I'd gotten up to rather more than _just some mischief_, after all. "But I have to warn you, there should be none of that at Hogwarts. Also, once you start your first year, you won't be allowed to use magic at home until you come of age, though if you want to practice or study you can go to Diagon Alley, or visit a friend with wizard parents who can supervise you."  
  
"Do you mean I'll be allowed to practice at home until the year starts?" I asked.  
  
"Yes, I do," she said with a nod. "Your magic won't be strong enough to cause any harm" — if only she knew — "and you'll need the practice to start strong this year. Now, as for your letter..."  
  
Professor McGonagall had a lot to say about logistics. School supplies were apparently bought in a place in London called Diagon Alley, and that I was to meet up with all the Muggle-raised students at Tottenham Court Road tube station on the 31st to purchase my supplies there. That was on my birthday, and I told her so. That seemed to make her happy. I certainly agreed it would be a wonderful birthday.  
  
After that, finally, I could ask questions. And I had some big ones.  
  
"Professor McGonagall, d-do you... know how my parents died?" I asked, and almost immediately wondered if I had asked the wrong question.  
  
The professor was shocked, worry and anger were warring on her face. "You mean you don't know?" she said, sounding indignant.  
  
"I'm not even sure my aunt and uncle know. Aunt Petunia told me they were killed by another wizard, but that's all." And even that, she'd only said after I got my Hogwarts letter. God only knows what she would have done if I hadn't been using my projection on her. "I was hoping you'd know more about what happened."  
  
"Ah." The surprise was gone, but she still seemed rather taken aback. "I suppose Professor Dumbledore might have wanted to shelter you from it... but everyone in the wizarding world knows, and keeping it from you now would only do you a disservice."  
  
She frowned, clearly trying to figure out how to tell the story kindly. It took her a little while – apparently she hadn't considered this possibility. But after a few moments, she regained her composure and spoke.  
  
"Harry, your parents fought against an evil wizard – but he was defeated many years ago. You have nothing to fear."  
  
My eyes widened in genuine surprise and real joy. I could feel happy tears forming in my eyes.  
  
I'd been afraid of Voldemort since the letter, and afraid of the Dursleys before that. But then, my parents had been on the run from Voldemort since long before I was born. Had I _ever_ truly had nothing to fear, my whole life? But I believed her, and it felt _incredible_.  
  
Well, I could almost believe her. I _wanted_ to believe her. If only there weren't that paranoid voice in the back of my head, the one I'd nurtured for so long, warning me not to trust this turn of fortune.  
  
"Even now," Professor McGonagall said, "he's usually called just You-Know-Who. When he was alive, he used a Dark ritual called Taboo to find people who said his name and kill them. Most people, even now that he's gone, won't say it." She paused for a second, apparently gathering her resolve. "He was called Voldemort," she said, "though I urge you not to repeat the name."  
  
"I won't," I whispered, nodding. I had always wondered how that was pronounced.  
  
"Lily and James fought bravely, battling his forces – the Death Eaters – many times, but when you were born... when they found out that You-Know-Who was trying to kill you... they had no choice but to go into hiding. They were betrayed. You were a year old when You-Know-Who finally found them, on Halloween of 1981. H-he... killed both of your parents..." It was plain Professor McGonagall had known them – she seemed like she was normally a very composed woman, and yet he could hear the emotions burning holes through her words. "And then he tried to kill you, and his spell backfired. Blew the roof off the house, put gaping holes in the walls. But you were fine. Unharmed, save for the scar over your right eye."  
  
I reached up and touched it gingerly, my mouth falling open, genuinely shocked. My parents had never mentioned the scar in their letters, but I didn't know it was a _curse_ scar, let alone one put there by Voldemort himself! I desperately wanted to get back upstairs to my books – I had so many questions, and a whole book just on curse scars to ask them to. Why was the shape so distinct, for example – did that mean it functioned as a sigil? Merlin, it was such a strange scar – so distinctive – how had I never figured this out? And how on earth could the _Dark Lord's curse_ have backfired? Wasn't his _signature spell_ Avada Kedavra?  
  
"I'm sorry, Harry," Professor McGonagall said, worried. "I... should have realized this story would affect you, I—"  
  
"No, i-it's all right," I said, voice just a little weak but trying to reassure nonetheless. Thank goodness she'd assumed my distraction was innocent. I had to stop thinking about the Dark Arts in front of her, or sooner or later I'd let something slip by accident. "I had to know. So h-he's dead? The war is over?"  
  
"Yes," Professor McGonagall said, and the utter relief in her voice called to mind the lifting of a veil, of the great dark cloud of paranoia that my parents had written about. She too must have suffered for this war. I wished I had known before now that the war had ended – I wished I never had to feel that cloud of paranoia myself. Though I did enjoy my own feeling of soaring, incredible relief. "He's gone. The war is over. It's all over."  
  
I sighed, letting my weight sag into the couch. _Thank goodness._  
  
"You are famous as the one who defeated You-Know-Who," Professor McGonagall said. "Wizards call you the Boy who Lived. Professor Dumbledore hoped that your Muggle upbringing would shelter you from that."  
  
My eyes widened, just a touch. If I was famous, then that would mean people would be watching me. That _definitely_meant I needed to stop with the Dark Arts. Not that I needed any more reason to. _The war is over!_ screamed a manic little voice inside of me. "Is there... something I can read? To find out what people think of me, or about the war?"  
  
"Most of the books about you are... well, rubbish. There's even a series of storybooks, of all things." She thought for a moment. "_The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ is a good reputable textbook. I'll have a copy owled to you before you go to Diagon Alley."  
  
"Thank you, Professor!" I said with a smile. "But, um, also..." I fidgeted a little. Something she'd said had left me genuinely curious, but I wasn't sure she'd like it. "Do you think you could get the storybook authors to send me a copy of those, too?" I said, my voice lighthearted. "I've always loved Muggle stories. Reading ones about _me_ sounds surreal but fun."  
  
Professor McGonagall smiled, looking genuinely amused for the first time since she'd got there. "You're very welcome. I'll see what I can do about the storybooks."   
  
I nodded, as a small, calculating voice in the back of my head reminded me – straight out of one of my Dark Arts books – that a society's children's stories said a lot about their aspirations for their children. Though, if I was such a celebrity, I feared these books might be more like expectations.  
  
"Did you have any other questions?" Professor McGonagall asked.  
  
"Uh, nothing else about my parents, but..." I looked away yet again. "Does Hogwarts have any language classes? I've been taking Spanish at my school this past year, and I've been really good at it. I'd like to keep going, if I can."  
  
McGonagall looked surprised – I supposed it was a bit of a strange question, especially considering how little she knew about me. "Yes, we should be able to arrange that. Taking language courses as a first year is quite rare, but doable. You'll need some extra textbooks – I'll owl you a list." She smiled. "That's a very practical second language for a wizard – there's a very large Spanish-speaking wizarding community in the Americas." I knew that – it was why I'd taken Spanish in the first place. One of Uncle Bertram's journals was all about his trip to South America – supposedly it was one of the best places in the world for the Dark Arts. "You'll be able to take school trips there if you keep pursuing the language. And, I must say, you sound just as studious as your mother," she added fondly.  
  
"Thanks, Professor. Did you have anything else?"  
  
"No," she said. "I'll see you in London!"  
  
I smiled and waved as the professor walked onto the doorstep and vanished with a loud _crack_.


	3. The Big Welcome

First Letter from Lily Potter  
  
_Hello, Harry.  
  
I'm sorry I haven't been writing to you nearly as much as your father. I promise, I love you just as much. I'm just not sure this whole letter-writing campaign of your father's is a great idea.  
  
See, James has gotten very fatalistic about this. He's convinced that we'll die at Voldemort's hands, and you'll go on to lead the noble fight against him. Which isn't totally unreasonable – there _is_ a prophecy involved. But I absolutely refuse to roll over and die. I'm building defenses – I took a curse-breaking course back at Hogwarts, which is helping out a lot. I've even been borrowing some of your new books. I'm not totally innocent to the Dark Arts like your father is – I learned some with Severus back in the day, which he will regret if we ever meet again. So I'm picking up all the curses I can cram into my head. I don't know if I can kill Voldemort, but I can damn well try.  
  
Likewise, I'm not so convinced that you can learn the Dark Arts without hurting yourself. Which is a bit hypocritical, I know, but hear me out. James is of the opinion that if you take after me, you'll be just fine, no matter what Dark Arts you learn. That's very sweet of him, but I know perfectly well I've got a temper like Bellatrix Lestrange. You'll have to do better than me if you plan to keep your sanity. Maturity helps, but I'm twenty-one, and I'm still terrified for _myself_. I lost a friend to precocious Dark Arts. Forgive me if I'm afraid for you too, especially if you start at nine like your crazy father wants.  
  
That's why I've focused less on writing letters and more on making sure you never need to read them, by keeping us alive and able to protect you. Clearly if you are reading this it didn't work out, but hey, I'm trying my hardest here.  
  
Love, Lily_  
  
~~  
  
When we stepped off the escalator from the tube station, I almost burst out laughing – there was a whole group there, just standing on the street corner, and while most of them were Muggleborn with their parents, a half dozen of the professors were there too, all of them in robes and pointed hats. They had to be doing something so the Muggles didn't see them – actually, Vernon _didn't_ see them at first, Petunia and Dudley and I had to point the group out to him before he'd notice.  
  
The plan was that I'd go to Diagon Alley with the professors, and the Dursleys would spend the day in London and then come back for me before heading home, but that seemed to worry Uncle Vernon. "You're sure Harry will be all right? You're sure you'll be back on time?"  
  
"Yes, Mr. Dursley," Professor McGonagall said. "If you want to come along, by all means do, but feel free to spend the day in Muggle London."  
  
"Go on, Uncle Vernon," I said with a smile. "They're just taking me shopping, there's nothing special about it. I'll see you back here in a few hours, okay?"  
  
The Dursleys were still uneasy about the whole magic thing. Uncle Vernon actually seemed physically disturbed by it somehow – when Professor McGonagall demonstrated a spell to him when I got my letter, he actually flinched away. Supposedly that wasn't unheard of, but it'd make Diagon Alley unpleasant for him. And Aunt Petunia had gone there with my mother once before, and she said she found it crowded and overwhelming, and that she'd rather not go this time.  
  
Dudley, however, made me promise to tell him all about Diagon Alley, and bring him along next time if it turned out to be awesome.  
  
"... Okay," Uncle Vernon said gruffly, unconvinced but willing to give in. "See you then, Harry."  
  
I'd gotten there pretty early, and it looked like someone else was running late. I wound up talking to a girl named Hermione who loved books just as much as I did, though she got indignant when I asked if she'd ever stolen any. Guess not. But it was still pretty nice, talking to someone who'd read even more stories than me. I'd probably still read more books than her counting the Dark Arts ones, but I couldn't mention those. That would be a bad idea.  
  
About ten minutes after we were supposed to leave, one more professor walked up, in trim, good-fitting purple robes with a matching purple turban.  
  
"Hello, everyone!" the tardy professor said loudly, waving to the parents. "I'm Professor Quirrell. I used to teach Muggle Studies, but this year, I'll be teaching Defense against the Dark Arts."  
  
"There are classes about _us_?" asked Hermione's mother, sounding indignant. I winced for a moment – you shouldn't admit that! – until I realized she was talking about Muggle Studies and not Defense against the Dark Arts.  
  
"Yes, there are classes about Muggles," Profesor Quirrell said. "Trust me, some wizards _need_ it. We can get _really_sheltered, especially those of us who live in all-wizard communities. You know some of us don't even know how to dress like Muggles? I'm serious! There's nothing like seeing a pompous aristocrat wearing his trousers on his head." We all laughed at that, and Professor Quirrell beamed at us.  
  
"Now that everyone is here," Professor McGonagall said, "we'll start our walk to—"  
  
"Hold on, one more thing!" Quirrell turned to Professor McGonagall. "Minerva, something's happened at Gringotts," he murmured. "The currency exchange in the lobby is still open, but the vaults are all closed off til further notice. There's a whole crowd of burly goblins blocking the entrance. They aren't saying anything, but I think there's been a robbery. Does anyone here have money in a Gringotts vault?"  
  
"They're all Muggleborn first-years," Professor McGonagall said. "They shouldn't... ah. Right." Then she turned and made eye contact with _me_. "Mr. Potter," she called, "did you bring any Muggle money with you?"  
  
"No," I said, biting my lip. "You said I wouldn't need any."  
  
"Well, he won't be able to get into his vault," Professor Quirrell said. "They're turning _everyone_ away. Do you have any school money, Minerva?"  
  
She nodded. "I do." Then she turned to me. "Mr. Potter, catch!" My eyes widened, and I just barely managed to catch a grey cloth bag with the Hogwarts insignia printed on it. It was tightly closed, but I could feel the heavy coins inside. "That should cover your school supplies for the day. Keep it – we'll charge your vault once Gringotts has reopened."  
  
"Thank you, professor!" I said.  
  
"I'll take him to Ollivander's while the rest go to Gringotts," Quirrell said. "No point having him wait around, and anything to make the Ollivander's line shorter will help."  
  
"All right," Professor McGonagall said. "Now, everyone, it's time to go to Diagon Alley!"  
  
We walked south, down Charing Cross Road, and I couldn't help but get more worried with every step.  
  
I'd read all the books McGonagall had sent me, and I knew what the wizarding world thought of me – that I was a hero, a _paragon_. There were whole books – _popular_ books – about how cool and awesome I was. It was overwhelming. Honestly, I was scared. I didn't _want_ this. I hated attention, and the moment I stepped into the Leaky Cauldron, I'd have more of it than I could ever handle. But I also didn't want to let them down.  
  
They _believed_ in me. I knew how important that was. The Harry Potter they all knew _wasn't real_ – but then, neither were the stories I'd lost myself in when I was younger, and they were all that kept me going for years and years. I was sure that there were young wizards who felt the same way about me. And I could only imagine how devastated they'd be if they saw the real me.  
  
I wasn't a hero. I was a scared young boy with an alarming knowledge of Dark Arts theory and a knack for Legilimency, who brainwashed his abusive Muggle adoptive parents into loving him. And it felt awful. They deserved better. So I would try. I had to. I'd put my Dark Arts behind me forever. And... maybe it was time I started to believe in myself the way they believed in me.  
  
Walking into the Leaky Cauldron was overwhelming – everyone wanted to talk to me, introduce themselves, maybe shake my hand. In the end, McGonagall had to beat them back so we could buy our school supplies. I could handle it, though I had to rely on my Occlumency study to stay chipper through it all. The reactions of my fellow students and parents were even worse. I could see their feelings changing on the inside, obvious even to passive Legilimency. Muggles and Muggleborn who had never heard of me in their lives were suddenly intrigued, excited, scared. I liked Hermione's reaction best – she was determined to find books about me, if I was so famous. But, still, it was unsettling to see people start to idolize me.  
  
And then we stepped out into Diagon Alley, and all of those worries were washed away in an instant, overwhelmed by my sense of wonder. Diagon Alley was just so _cool_ – vibrant, sparkling, brightly colored, noisy, even strong-smelling, with a multitude of shops selling the weirdest things. Most of it, I'd read about – there had been some books on normal magic alongside the Dark Arts – but it was just so _strange_ to see them in person.  
  
We split up, most of the group going to Gringotts, me going with Professor Quirrell to get my wand.  
  
"So," I asked, "what's it like getting a wand? I haven't read about them – do I have to make any choices, or—"  
  
"Don't worry about that," Professor Quirrell said. "Mr. Ollivander will take your measurements and pick the best wand for you. That can take a while, though, and you might have to try a bunch of them. I'll admit, it's not my favorite part. Plus Mr. Ollivander can be kind of..." He fidgeted just a little. "_Weird_. Come on, this way!"  
  
He led me around a corner into a narrow side street, and my eyes darted around, searching out more of Diagon Alley's wonders. Except, there was _nothing_ in here – just some dustbins, and the back door to Eeylops Owl Emporium. It was a dead end. "Professor," I asked, turning around to look at him, "why are we—"  
  
My jaw clenched as I turned around to see an undulating red barrier, _unquestionably_ the Isolation Curse – Dark Arts, and I could feel the malevolence of it all the way from here. There was a shimmer in the air just past it, likely a camouflaging charm of some kind.  
  
I opened my mouth to scream, and with a flick of his wand, he silenced me, and nothing came out. The Voice-Stealing Curse, nonverbal.  
  
A wide, unsettling smirk was spread across Quirrell's face. It didn't seem to fit – he'd been so friendly before. "Master," he hissed, unwinding the turban from around his head. "I've got him. He can't escape."  
  
"_Excellent_," responded a high, cold whisper, not unlike a tea kettle given words. "_Tie the boy down – I'd like to see what's so special about the _Boy-Who-Lived_. How long do we have?_"  
  
"I-It'll take them at least thirty minutes before anyone gets to Flourish and Blott's and notices we didn't show up," Quirrell stammered. "Maybe longer, with the uproar at Gring—"  
  
"_Acceptable. This won't take long,_" said Quirrell's master, and Quirrell clamped his mouth shut – and then, to his obvious discomfort, his own body started to shuffle around, slowly and jerkily, his arms bending back to hold his wand up behind him – and then I gasped without sound, as I caught sight of the back of his head.  
  
Another face was there, with glowing red eyes, no nose, and snakelike scales – Dark Arts deviations, I was sure of it. Whoever this was, they were serious bad news. And the extra face was clearly the result of a possession ritual – my library didn't have a great selection on necromancy, but this was what you'd do if you were a bodiless spirit, clinging to life by a thread...  
  
Oh. Fuck.  
  
This was Lord Voldemort, wasn't it? The one I was supposed to have killed?  
  
My eyes darted around the alleyway, looking for anything I could do to escape.   
  
I didn't have my wand yet. I didn't have my lancet with me, either, and even if I did, I hadn't practiced any of the spells for it. And Quirrell was clearly an Occlumens, or I would have _known_ he was leading me into a trap – Legilimency wouldn't save me. There was no way I'd be able to break the Isolation Curse to escape, and I had no spells to signal the outside. God, why hadn't I practiced the Dark Arts? Did I really need to keep my soul nice and pure for the slaughter?  
  
I could probably dodge Voldemort, at least for a little while – he clearly wasn't used to piloting Quirrell's body. But I couldn't get out, so that'd all be moot. And there were plenty of curses he could use to immobilize me.  
  
On the street outside, I caught sight of a woman wearing the red and black robes of an Auror, and one last, desperate idea popped into my head. I reached out toward her mind and _grabbed_ it, lashing out with Legilimency with as much power as I could muster. Even a Muggle would feel that, and Aurors were supposed to learn Occlumency – she had to notice this!  
  
Or I was dead.  
  
I screamed soundlessly as Quirrell dragged me deeper into the alley and my vision went dark.  
  
~~  
  
I woke with a start, with a flinch that _hurt_, like my body was made of tissue paper and I'd just torn it.  
  
"He's awake!" said a deep yet gentle voice. "Hello, Mr. Potter. Can you hear us?"  
  
"I can hear you..." I tried to look around, but all I could see was a blur. "My glasses," I murmured, and big but gentle hands pressed them onto my face. I didn't think I had ever been in this place before – it was long and very white, filled with rushing wizards wearing green robes. Beds lined the walls, though most were empty. "Where am I?"  
  
"You're in St. Mungos, the magical hospital in downtown London," said the gentle voice. I turned to look at him – he was a big, beefy wizard, almost reminiscent of Uncle Vernon, but with pure white hair and a very friendly smile. "I'm Chief Healer Borland. Don't worry, Harry. You'll be all right."  
  
"But what _happened_?" I asked. There was a whole crowd of people around my bed, but I didn't know any of them – aside from the healer, there was a thin woman with short blonde hair – the Auror I'd tried to use Legilimency on, I thought? – a gaunt, scarred man with a magical eye and Auror robes, a man with long, greasy hair, a long nose, and what looked suspiciously like Dark Arts marks on his face, and an old man with flamboyant robes and a long grey beard who I vaguely felt I had met before. "Who are all of you?"  
  
"I'm Professor Dumbledore," the flamboyantly-dressed man said, and I gasped. _That_ was why I remembered him – there was a picture of Dumbledore in my trunk, part of an Order of the Phoenix group photo. "On my left is Auror Emmeline Vance, who rescued you, and on my right is Auror Alastor Moody, who will be responsible for your protection in the hospital and in Diagon Alley going forward." I'd seen them both in that photo too, though they weren't as distinctive as Dumbledore. "Professor Severus Snape is on your other side, assisting the healer." My Occlumency clamped down hard on my shock – Severus had come up in my letters, Mum's old friend who'd become a Death Eater. I could only assume he'd been a defector, if Dumbledore was letting him anywhere near me.  
  
"Hi, I'm Harry," I said weakly, and everyone but Severus smiled. "But what..." I groaned, wincing. Everything hurt, even talking.  
  
"Professor Quirrell had been possessed by a spirit. We haven't identified it yet, but we strongly suspect it may have been Lord Voldemort's shade. He had, earlier today, stolen a powerful magical artifact from Gringotts – now recovered. I believe he wanted to kidnap you to try and figure out how he'd been defeated. But Auror Vance noticed his Legilimency probe" – I felt a surge of pride, my plan _had_ worked after all – "and she, with a group of Aurors, was able to rescue you and trap Quirrell, at which point the spirit killed him and fled."  
  
"Why did you trust the bastard?" Moody asked, and I couldn't help but agree fully.  
  
"An unfortunate oversight," Dumbledore said. "Quirrell was a friend and Hogwarts professor for many years, but as part of his studies before taking the Defense against the Dark Arts position, he went on a tour of places with rumored Voldemort sightings, seeking to find his spirit—"  
  
"A damn fool thing to do," Auror Moody interjected. "He had a Defense NEWT and a teaching position, that's it. What the hell was he thinking, _hunting Dark Lords_?!"  
  
"I believe that's when he got possessed," Dumbledore added mildly. "At which point, unfortunately, he was no longer in control of his actions. He seems to have had some autonomy, but he was almost certainly brainwashed."  
  
"So, Professor," I said, my voice coming out as a croak. "I-if something like this happens again... Is there anything I can do to defend myself? Is there anything y-you can teach me?" My parents had given me an answer to this question – the Dark Arts – and I had a sinking feeling that would be the _only_ answer.  
  
"No," Professor Dumbledore lied. "I'm sorry. There's nothing you can do – Quirrell and the spirit who possessed him took three Aurors to bring down, even as weakened as they were. You won't be able to stand against people like him until you're much older. I'm sure you're very scared, but please understand that you shouldn't _have_ to defend yourself. We'll protect you, Harry. Be strong for us. Now, there is a spell you can use to call to me if you're in trouble – I'd be happy to teach it to you, when you're well again."  
  
I nodded, and tried to keep my feelings inside. The Dark Arts it was, then. And I'd have to learn them on my own.  
  
We kept talking for a while after that – I recounted what had happened to me in a quiet, trembling voice, describing the sensations as if I hadn't recognized every damn curse he'd used on me until I finally, mercifully passed out – until they finally saw fit to tell me that my family was waiting outside, none too happy about being kept away from me. Supposedly Uncle Vernon had gotten so mad he'd punched an Auror.  
  
~~  
  
I sat at my desk, my head in my hands, and cried.  
  
My parents had been right. I was going to die. Maybe I was the boy who lived, but all that meant was that I was a boy, and I was still alive. For now. With Voldemort and all his men out for my blood. Whoop de doo.  
  
I wasn't strong. I wasn't powerful. I wasn't the Chosen One. There were no secret abilities for me, no unaccountable instincts, no visions, no protectors waiting to burst from the shadows. I was all I had, and that wasn't nearly enough.  
  
I was an eleven-year-old – maybe talented, by eleven-year-old standards, but scarcely more magical than any other kid my age. Any adult witch or wizard could overpower me and not even notice doing it. Whatever had happened on October 31, 1981 – and it _hadn't_ killed Voldemort, his spirit had been on the back of Quirrell's head – I had nothing whatsoever to do with it. Probably my mom's work – she seemed a lot more vicious than my dad, and she was even smarter than I was. She could have blown Voldemort up if she worked at it.  
  
I cared about my legend, about the people who believed in me. But if I ever believed my own legend again, if I let myself pretend that teachers or Aurors would protect me, if I convinced myself I could survive without getting my hands dirty or my soul stained, then I would die. Painfully. Because I had failed already, literally within fifteen minutes of my grand entrance to the wizarding world. I'd escaped by pure luck – how likely was that, an Auror walking by in my last free moments? No chance it'd happen again. So anything I could do, any Dark Magic I could learn, that could let me escape would be worth it.  
  
This wasn't the right time to start with lancet magic. That had been years ago. But this was the best I could do. No time left to lose.  
  
I picked the pen up from my desk, flipped it around in my hand, and concentrated, all of the books of Dark Arts I'd read guiding me. I activated the spells to make its nib into a sharp, pointed lancet, pressed it to the soft pad of my thumb, and then ever so gently broke the surface. A single drop of blood, a big fat red one, welled up on my skin. I reached out to it, feeling it with my magic, whispering the incantation – and a flame, a little jet of blue like from Aunt Petunia's gas stove, burst into life on my fingertip, dancing and flickering at my will. I smiled.  
  
My very first lancet magic, and it had gone perfectly.  
  
_At least I'm a natural. Maybe I'll even survive my next trip to Diagon Alley._


End file.
